Laptop Buddha

The day was hard. Hardly enough time to breathe. Files piling up on the desk. For the first time in my life, I accepted coffee at my desk, instead of performing the usual routine of brewing it myself. Deadlines. People were like wolves, attacking me from all around, biting at whatever they got. They were hungry. For answers, for results.

A few men wilted. They went outside to catch the Delhi's wintry breeze, some men with Marlboro packets in their hands even before they left the building. Even the coffee machine seemed to be running out of energy. People were pacing, trudging, jogging... Beads of sweat on a cold winter day. The pressure was on.

I looked at the files and folders on my desktop, each was a solution. Each was an opportunity. Where would I be without all this data! Where would we be without all its computational power!

The more you give, the more they ask. The job is demanding, and fulfilling. There is happiness in the knowledge that you're an integral part of a system, which together realizes such powerful change. People press you for results; you push others. The computers are running wildly, pulling out figures and simulations. It's magical and devastatingly ugly.

Everything in its place, people dovetailing each other... Cogs. Clocks. Structures and targets. Everyone driving to a common goal at a relentless pace.

That was when my laptop fell down. It fell with a thud, halfway through a simulation, with twenty tabs open on my Chrome browser and half a dozen mail items open. I picked it up in a hurry, hoping not to waste time. Strangely, I wasn't greeted by the cluttered desktop. As I picked up the fallen computer, there was nothing there. Black screen.

Reboot.

Windows never turned on. "Your hard-disk has not been detected". Hyperventilation. More coffee. Sweat. People surrounded me. "IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?" It will be, I assured them. Work must not stop.

But what of all the data? How could all this continue if the chain broke down in the middle? People continued asking me questions, but suddenly there were no more answers. I thought the world would implode.

Strangely however, the questions stopped. All of a sudden, what I was doing wasn't important any more. The cogs went on, the clock ticked, the machine ran smoothly. And I continued trying to reboot the stubborn machine. Nothing. I called the IT Help Desk. They couldn't help immediately either.

I apologized to people, afraid I was letting them down. "It's okay," they said happily. "It happens to everyone." And work continued uninterrupted.

The irrelevance of the individual is deeply disturbing. Nothing you do really matters. Nothing in the world matters at all. In the morning, I was worried about all the files, emails, photographs and manuals which I would lose if my hard-disk wasn't revived. Even those things don't matter.

Nothing really does.

Flashing Lights and Ladies - The Story of Vegas

It isn't every day that you get to live in a pyramid. And not all pyramids fire photon canons into the black sky. A month ago, I stayed on the twenty-seventh floor of the Luxor - with a view of both the magnificent phenomenon that is Vegas and the serene Nevada mountains in the distance, which seemed to be embroiled in a "I'm greater than you" debate with one another.

The World's Best
Everything in Las Vegas is the world's best - the cigars, the women, the music, the spirits, the shameless neon brilliance, the towering replicas of everything Americans consider grand. In fact, in Las Vegas, they will make you believe that their New York is better than the one on the East Coast, and that there is more love in 'Paris' than in the French capital. There is Venice and Rome and Burma and China... Everything is the World's best. The world's best music shows, the world's best strip clubs, the world's best limos - God knows what else.

Vegas is bright
In the night, planes get confused. As soon as they cross the dull Rockies and the canyons nearby, they are mesmerized by a city that dances in front of their eyes, in colours and in song. And to make matters worse, there is a hotel (my own) smashing light into the sky.

During the first night, our wanderings took us to the end of the strip, and therefore we were subjected to the immense Fremont Street Experience. The sky isn't real any more. It is fabricated by men, and it does what it is commanded to do. It can burst into flames and calm into the gentlest piano music at the clap of a hand. And all around us, women and alcohol and casinos and movie-star lookalikes.

Our fine Chevy looked hopelessly out of place in a city where people firmly believe that 'bigger is better'. Newer is also better, except when it comes to casinos: because there's not much that can compare with the Caesar's Palace (where a friend lost $300 in half an hour), the Bellagio or the MGM Grand.

The most unchanging city in the world
Vegas is a religion and it is a God. There are conjurers here, unlike anything history has ever produced. I still wonder about certain things I saw during my 'Cirque du Soleil' experience. They cannot be explained except by magic. But I won't question them, because such things happen in Vegas.

There are limousines longer than roads in this city, and planes which fly in at 8pm and out at 4am to entertain their masters. Vegas, which can easily be considered the work of the devil, leaving Dubai far behind, stands unashamed in all its glory as the world looks on. So often, in its dazzling brilliance, it shows the world its shame and asks people to embrace it. Las Vegas might be the future.

In Vegas, they will sink ships, recreate Hawaii, build Rome and make water sing just to entertain you. It's a magical place, soulless as it is. It is full of emptiness, and it proudly stands as a symbol of what might come.

Vegas is so far ahead of everything else that it doesn't change.

New York City

It's late in the night and I'm walking down 6th Avenue towards the Empire State Building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tricolour lighting up the top of one of America's most recognizable monuments. I'm walking through the chilly air that seems to hang at every turning. A pretty woman, smoking a cigarette, sporting a Gucci bag and wearing a figure-kissing dress walks briskly across the road; the road is a still picture as she walks. Her skirt, split down the side, catches the breeze. These things don't bother New Yorkers. I turn into a Starbucks, as she walks away. "That's three dollars and seventy-five."

Macy's is closed now. That doesn't stop the bustle at its door. Some distance away, an old homeless man sleeps. People walk past him, laughing, singing, and sometimes on the phone. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, he sleeps comfortably on a wooden stool. Mornings are chilly in New York. That's why people wear suits.

I decide to return home after being trapped in Times Square like a deer in headlights. I'm spinning, turning, seeing so many things. Finally I'm asleep.

The next day begins on the same note. Everyday here begins on the same note. I take the tube from Grand Central Station. I'm going to Brooklyn. I want to see what the buzz about the bridge is all about. There's a buzz about everything here. I make a fool of myself trying to buy tickets. How am I to know the machine is smart enough to return change? I'm trying to fish for the exact coins and notes, looking at George Washington's picture, when a beefy guy pushes me out of his way impatiently. Things are fast here, faster perhaps than in Bombay. But everything is structured. There's no uncertainty about anything.

I reach Brooklyn and naturally, I'm engrossed in the Manhattan skyline. I miss out on what is happening directly in front of me. A newly married couple heads for the Pier straight from the church. They're surrounded by bridesmaids, best-men - the whole entourage. They kiss for a long time. Camera-shutters sound. It doesn't matter. Smart-ass Mexican guy standing next to me shouts, "Game over, man!", which the groom smilingly acknowledges. "Keep the bridesmaids too," yells another voice.

Before heading back to 42nd Street, I stop at Wall Street. All the big banks are here, and all the fancy TV channels which tell you 'Mutual Funds are subject to market risks'. I see a man outside The Trump Building, dressed impeccably in a costly suit. But he's sitting on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette. Not exactly what you'd expect. Then again, people here hardly do things which are commonly expected.

Midtown again. There are photographers everywhere. It's pretty mad. On top of towers and in the subway. I'm one of them. I don't think people in New York City go to work without their fancy cameras. I need coffee again. Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

As I exit the shop, the same things greet me. Everything greets me. In fact, in all its overbearing diversity, New York looks mundane. The whole world is here, dressed in suits, vests, baggy caps and panama hats, shorts with ties, shirtless with trousers on, dresses that end over the navel, dresses that start over the neckline... Everything.

And then, I see a woman - Caucasian, fairly large-boned, and completely naked. She's standing in the middle of Times Square, outside a Broadway Theatre. She's campaigning for something, covered only in paint. And nothing else. She doesn't seem to mind, but no one else does either. People are walking past her casually. People don't have the time for naked women on Times Square.

I take another picture of Adriana Lima, who is smiling from a huge billboard far above our heads. She's looking rather stunning in her single piece swimsuit, but then there are women prettier than her on the NYC roads perhaps. They all mostly end up heading into one of those stores with large hoardings on top of them.

I think I need coffee. The usual: $3.75.

I walk out and sit down on a park-bench, to drink my coffee and read 'Kafka on the Shore'. I turning to page two-hundred-and-forty when I realize I'm sitting next to a couple who are visiting New York just like me. But they're smiling, talking and laughing. Their faces are very close, like in the moments just before you kiss someone. But they don't. I get up and walk.

I have not even finished the coffee yet when the antithesis of romance sets itself upon me. "Throw the ring away, Jane, and walk out of the house!" yells a man on top of his voice. "I don't care." I throw my coffee cup away and watch the man disappear around the bend. According to the movies, he ought to be heading to a Gentlemen's Club now, no? Anyway, I'm at Madisson Square Garden. I take out my camera.

I try to enter a busy souvenir shop. It's run by a large African-American lady. She treats me like some autistic child who is incapable of normal understanding. I feel a little discriminated against. I look up at the board which says 'NY Penn Station' and smile at America's history. Oh, the irony of it all!

I think I've had enough for the day. I've seen more, heard more, felt more and eaten more than I ought to have. I feel like the New York Times already, with omniscient eyes and all. The NY Times covers theatre just the way they cover the world, they claim. I have to see that for myself. I'll go watch  'Phantom of the Opera' tomorrow, I think.

But now, I need some coffee.

The Difference Between Life and Tetris

There is none.

We all theorize. Every time you stare into the ocean, or at the moon, or at the caramel sands in the blazing desert, you begin pondering about life, its meaning and therefore about its futility. The greatness of the view makes you feel like a rather insignificant speck in the grand scheme of things, and thus initiates such a thought-process which, quite obviously, has no meaningful end. But we dutifully go through this painful realization every time we sit alone in front of nature's magnificent might. And every time, we have a new theory about life.

My theory begins with Tetris. It all began three days ago when I was playing the wonderful game, resplendent in black and white. That was when it first struck me how similar it was to life itself! Blocks of different shapes and sizes were raining upon me with the spontaneity of the immense drops in a thunderstorm. They fell with such randomness that they were entirely indistinguishable from the stochastic events - opportunities and worries - that Life throws at us. You can't obviate or avoid them; you can only arrange them, try to absorb them.

As the 'Z's, the 'L's and the 'I's fell upon me, I could but divert them towards the different corners of the little screen I looked at, with the hope of achieving something spectacular - an order in a chaotic universe, which would be so beautiful that I couldn't ever take my eyes off it.

The 'Z's snuggled cozily with the 'L's, even as the spectacular 'Is's occupied those elusive voids which have always been left incomplete. And then I saw the beautiful pattern being completed. There were no voids. No spaces. No white places which required reason. The completed pattern imprinted itself in my mind in a way, I knew, I could never be freed of the haunting memory. The thought of the pattern gives me goosebumps even now - when I'm almost entirely sure that I will never again be able to replicate such splendor. Magnificent in its magic, Life is. Much like Tetris.

And then, I witnessed the greatest climax ever possible when the pattern satiated itself and collapsed. It disappeared! And it left no trace. The experience was complete, and now it was absent. It was but a memory, and therefore it was perfect. Experiences, after all, are only as perfect as the memories they are capable of creating. And it was apparent to me that day. There are no goals in life. There are never any! There are only roads which we imagine are ways to a destination. But ever so often, these roads are so romantic themselves, that you must forget the destination! Just like Tetris.

Rules of Tetris: When you make a perfect line, it disappears and all the blocks shift accordingly, leaving only a void on your screen. If you let the blocks reach the top of the Tetris board, you lose. You cannot win a Tetris game, though you can attempt to get the high score.

The point of Life isn't to reach the top, is it? The objective is to make patterns more beautiful than you can imagine, until they complete themselves and remain only as memories - memories that you want to relive. But sometimes, they come back! And we all wish that, one day, we will have the opportunity to recreate those spectacular designs.

It's the same thing with Tetris. You can't win Tetris; you only get to make a high-score. A score so high no one else can match!

That Post About Religion

I have always believed that religion has been an essential part of human evolution and has played a defining role in all spheres of life – scientific, military, spiritual, cultural etc. But when people stick too closely to it and forget the reason for its existence in the first place, it becomes a little frustrating and very humorous.

Forget everything that I just said. The bottom-line is: Religious fanatics are hilarious.

Every time I reach this part of the world, I am fortunate enough to be subjected to a diatribe or two about the higher values of life and our raison d’être.  The last time it happened, I was walking down a crowded marketplace in downtown Cairo when a bunch of hawkers stopped me and began coaching me about the truths of life. Back then, I was a naïve fool and I was so stunned by their actions that I failed to recognize the humour in the incident. Well, this time was different.

I began my innocuous walk back to the tea-room along with my engineer-friend to make myself a refreshing cup of piping hot chai after another day of brute-force labour when I ran into the Equipment Operator I shall henceforth refer to only as Mr. M. He had, several times in the past, tried to incite me into conversing with him about religion but I tactfully evaded the talk every single time. This time he took a very direct approach.

Mr. M: You know, Anirudh, I used to preach before to those who are blind. And I’d like to use this opportunity to tell you a little about the truth about God and life. I only want to open your eyes.

I was shocked by the sudden manner in which he brought up the topic and I managed to spill copious amounts of boiling hot liquid on my coveralls. Thank God (whichever one you choose to believe in) for making Nomex coveralls thick!

Mr. M: (quickly correcting himself) No, no… Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean you cannot see this cup of tea or this table in front of you. I want to enlighten your mind. There is nothing wrong in being blind; I too was blind before (he consoled me).

Me: What about this guy? (I asked pointing at my engineer friend) Don’t you want to give him eyes as well?

Mr. M: (Pointing to the other engineer in the room) My friend here is from a holy city and a land of several preachers. I am sure that there are several people more learned than me who can teach him. If he remains blind even after that, then I cannot help him anyway. But you, my friend… You are from the distant land of India and it is my duty to enlighten you.

Me: (I chuckled involuntarily) So you think that the distant land of India is dark and people there are blind? Let me tell you one thing, Mr. M… No one in this world is blind. There are people who believe in the same things as you do and there are people who believe differently. There is no reason to call people different from you as blind!

Mr. M: You don’t understand me fully… We are all one and we all evolved from the same people. But somewhere along the line, some of us went astray. Do you realize that this is why we have conflicts these days? Imagine if we all followed the same religion and the one true God… Imagine how peaceful and powerful we will be!

Me: (nonchalantly) Okay then, why don’t you follow my religion? Then also, we can be peaceful, as you say.

Mr. M: (thoroughly shocked) No! Your religion does not follow the code… Tell me what is good about your religion?

Me: There are several things good and bad about any religion. What specifically do you want to know?

Mr. M: Does your God tell you the way of the righteous man? Does He tell you how to live?

Me: Of course, we have two magnificent concepts called dharma­ – which is the definition of the righteous path – and karma – which defines the fruits of your actions. (Realizing that I was getting way too philosophical) I can explain these in detail if you want, but that’s the gist.

Mr. M: Is this Dharma your God?

Me: No, it is the path of righteousness. Why should you care about God if your religion defines a good way to live? Isn’t that the entire point?

Mr. M: No, your God defines everything. Let me educate you… What do you know about your origins?

I was confused now. Did he want me to talk about Darwinian evolution, about the Aryan invasion of India, about Zoroastrianism and Hinduism in the pre-Vedic times? Luckily, he qualified the question further.

Mr. M: Do you know about Adam and Eve?

Of course, I should have guessed – Adam and Eve! The problem with any kind of debate is that in order to create any sort of meaningful clash, you need to agree on some topic in the first place. This is Debating 101. Using that point as a mutually agreed position, you can go on to debate everything else. However, if there is no meeting place, then both parties can go on endless tirades, all of which will be futile. Sigh, so I have to agree with Adam and Eve now.

Me: Yes, we too have a first man. It’s just that we call him Manu and not Adam. They probably gave him an Indian name to make him sound local.

Mr. M: How can you have a first man of a different name? This is not true then!

Me: Dude, my religion came up with all these stories some four-thousand years ago. I have no idea how they traced people back to the first man with his name. That being said, your version of the origin of Man came some two-thousand years after mine. I wonder why they changed his name in your tale?

Mr. M: Okay, okay (he said in a hurry) So far, you have agreed upon the fact that we all came from the same origin. Now, why do you insist on believing something different? Come to our path…

My Engineer Friend: (turning this into a tag-team match) You understand that every new religion came in order to make up for a void left by another, right? I accept that your faith dates back to several thousand years ago but think about this… Judaism came first, and then Christianity, and finally Islam. Each one filled the gap left by the rest. Same applies to your faith too.

Me: Maybe, whatever you say applies to Abrahamic religions but India is some three thousand miles away. None of this filled a void in India and China back then! Anyway, for the sake of argument, let’s consider that what you say is right. Then, I should believe in Scientology, no? That’s the latest religion, not Islam.

My Engineer Friend: That’s blasphemy. They ought to be killed!

Mr. M to My Engineer Friend: (in Arabic) Scientology aish?

My Engineer Friend: Humans came from aliens, not from Adaam.

They both laugh heartily.

Mr. M: These fellows are funnier than the Chinese guys! (Then, turning to me) Do you know Chinese don’t believe in Adam? They think we just came into this world, like it was no one’s business… Like we evolved from camels or something.

I smiled and put my hands on Mr. M’s shoulder.

Me: I sincerely believe that all people of any faith, if they are completely true to what has been preached to them, can do no wrong. Wrongdoers are anomalies of a system and not the results of them.

Mr. M: That is a wrong belief, my friend… Look at the western society! If people see the light, then we won’t have the evils of the West plaguing us! If you go to the beach, you have to see naked ladies taking bath in the sea… They need to be reformed.

Sigh, now I have to accept that bikinis are bad for this world.

Me: Are you trying to tell me that the church tells these women to wear bikinis to the beach? I don’t think so… I think the Pope will be very upset if he hears this. (My engineer friend laughed) But just for the sake of conversation, if you think women dress badly, what about the men?

Mr. M: For men, it is different, my Indian friend. But when women dress like that and when they go nude, they trigger many evils in the society. We are filled with bad emotions and this will lead to the downfall of Mankind.

Me: Aren’t you supposed to control yourself? I mean – how is a woman responsible if you are the one committing the evils?

Mr. M: All that you speak now – they are the Devil’s words. This desire that they trigger in us is the Devil’s work as well. It is all written in the code: if only you will understand.

Me: As I told you, everyone talks about the same things… These stories are just packaged differently to suit local needs. All I ask of you is not try to impose your faith on me. Believing in the same thing is not a prerequisite for harmonious existence. I come from a secular nation and I can assure you that much. I never once have tried to enlighten you… I only ask you to similarly keep your views unto yourself.

Mr. M gave up on his efforts to make me see the true path of light and glory. For today.

Mr. M: One day, my friend… We will all truly be brothers.

Me: But we are already brothers.

Mr. M: I don’t believe it.

Me: Well, I do.

P.S. On a normal day, I wouldn't give a damn about religion and faith. But these conversations have a strange way about them. They make you want to desperately return to your roots although you aren't all that passionate about it. These religious people – they make you religious too, by one way or the other. God save Humanity.

Peacock Horizon

The sky was turning into the most magnificent combination of crimson and gold. The moon, beaming down upon the earth with its rays of white light, appeared lonely now. A few clouds gathered by the horizon, making a statement of beauty and splendor to our thirsty eyes. The winter wind blew cold and frosty, bursting through the dunes and valleys of the desert, as I held on tightly to my light jacket.

The clouds appeared violet in a blood red sky as the smell of freshly brewed chai was carried by the wind. Short men who cowered from the relentless wind appeared tall and powerful in their shadows. Somewhere an engine was started; perhaps that of a car or maybe a generator to help battle the cold.

A few birds flew in the direction of the sun, flying so fast you would think the end was nigh. Everything in the desert had changed colour in an instant – with the sand turning from rust to deep shade of amber and with the sky now appearing blue and black. You could watch all this a million times and still it wouldn't cease to enchant.

You will fall in love with the desert twice a day – once when the Sun gets up in the East and then when it goes away in the evening. If you take away the experiences prior to them and those which come after, the two instants when you see the Sun peeking over the end of the world are entirely indistinguishable from each other. You cannot know if what will follow will be a day of bright sun or ten hours of darkness.

But you do not care about what will ensue as you are bound by the enthralling colours of the world around you. It doesn't matter what will come next as you know that it doesn't get any more beautiful than this. The desert allows you to live through one of those few rare moments when all that matters to you is only the present - not what came before and not what will come after.

The Undeserving

Dark brown powder quickly dispersed in the boiling water which rapidly flooded his cup. He stirred the brimming cup with the ease of a man who was accustomed to making his own coffee every morning. Spiking his hair with his wet palms, he quickly walked out of the canteen to join the morning meeting, late as he usually was.

Everyone else was already there, waiting impatiently for him to come. As he approached the group, he noticed that every seat was occupied. 'Coming late clearly has its disadvantages', he thought. 'I will probably have to stand through all of it.' But hardly had he embarked upon that thought when the elderly man closest to him rose from his seat to offer it to him. He nodded nonchalantly and took the seat without a though, as if by right. He then looked around at the others expectantly, as if to say 'Get on with it already!'

His eyes met those of the leader's ephemerally and he quickly averted his gaze. The leader had made it clear during the previous meeting that latecomers wouldn't be tolerated and he wished he would be excused once again. The leader spoke next, anger showing in his voice - 'My friend,' he said. 'If I see anyone late next time, you shan't be allowed to sit in this meeting.'

The latecomer looked up sheepishly, ready to apologize but to his surprise, he realized that the chief wasn't talking to him at all! Instead, he was speaking to the man who had just given up his seat for him. Although he understood that the lecture was meant for him, he found comfort in the fact that he wasn't being rebuked in public. The words of warning uttered were harsh, but they were conveyed to him through a third person. All the while, the elderly man standing next to him nodded apologetically for no fault of his own.

The only difference between man who sipped his coffee coolly and the man who had to give up his seat for him was education. The young man with spiked hair was obviously well educated and although he had joined the firm only a few months ago, he deserved the respect afforded to him whereas the older man who had worked his entire life for the organization was already used to the chastising words thrown at him time and again. So no one was hurt badly by the events which took place that morning except for one particular spectator who wanted to throw up.

I find it terribly hard to digest the fact that some people lay claim to common resources at the expense of others simply because they can. Actually, I think it is stupid that they can in the first place. But then, it is something society has been affording them from time immemorial and it would be insane to think that there is a cure for it. However, we all do have the option of saying that we do not want that undeserved right. If you are late for a meeting, then stand. If you are on the wrong-side of a long queue, then wait your turn. Don't delude yourself into believing that you deserve anything more.

'It's okay,' said the leader at the end of the meeting, patting the elderly man on his back. 'This time, I will forgive everyone. Now, will you make me some tea?'

Rime Of The Modern Oilman

The wind here blows twice a day
From the blades of a chopper that comes and leaves-
The only time the ocean ebbs or heaves,
As the men that pray are whisk'd away.

On-board come fresh muscles and blood
With pumping hearts which yearn to return-
As the wheels turn and the oils burn;
As the drill-bit churns out the ocean's mud.

The show must go on - come sun or rains
As the world can't be of oil starved
Even if machines conk or arms be half'd
Or if man o'erboard to seek mermaidens.

There are pigeons on this floating pile of steel
Unreal birds which have never sighted land
They were born here, they will die here and
They'll never be birds whose chirps are real.

Men, unlike birds, have at least the freedom-dream
Through TeleVs, telephones and data-cords,
Lost in the voices of lovers, wives and wards
And in the occasional laugh at an internet meme.

As the clock ticks a month, routine sets in
The drills go on and bodies are toned
But too long at sea and the mind is torn
As the engine's sound is your merriest din.

Eventually tired of the same porks, chickens, beefs
Your Cap'n calls - 'Go home, now you may.'
For the wind here still blows twice a day
From the blades of a chopper that comes and leaves.

October Post

 I'm blank.

After aeons on this blog, I'm finally out of ideas to put into this Rich Text Editor window! It's something to do with work-life, I'm sure. Almost every blog I've followed ardently has met its bitter end once its author has gone through a major life-changing event, and I'm afraid that the this one too might go mainstream. Combating for survival and to retain this tiny speck of space I've got on the www, I embark upon this blog-entry, brilliantly and innovatively titled 'October Post'.

I'm sure that you, dear reader, are wondering what major life-changing event I might be going through that I'm pondering about sacrilegious acts such as abandoning the blog. If nothing of that sort crept into your head, you should probably stop here.

Since you are here, I'll let you in on the deal - it's work-life. And no, I'm not changing jobs. But work-life started over a year ago, you tell me. What's so life changing? Well, it just kicked in.

With the immense experience of one year at work, I've concluded that there are three important days in any employee's life: (1) The day you join, (2) The day 'it kicks in' and (3) The day you think you can't/won't do it any more. Today's probably the day 'it kicked in'.

I walked out of work today at 7 pm, as opposed to the routine 4:30, beaming joyfully at everyone I crossed. Many claim they hate morning-people, but let me tell you what people hate more - someone who leaves the office beaming. Anyway, having deftly evaded the watchman's cold stares, I went to the spot where I was supposed to have a bus waiting to whisk me away to sweet oblivion. But alas, there was nothing there save for the remains of a few cigarettes someone had smoked before they had boarded the bus .

This is the point where I'd have normally cursed and fumed. But no, today the positive forces within took me by surprise. I called Meru Cabs and the operator promptly put me on hold for eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds. I waited patiently and when the helpful executive finally came on line, I didn't abuse him. But then, he told me that the next Meru Cab would be available at my location at 9:30 pm. 'Can you wait for two and a half hours, sir?' he had the nerve to ask.

I got home using a series of auto-rickshaws, because no one would go the whole way. And when I reached, I still had a smile on my face. I think I've finally been institutionalized. I have finally accepted work-life for what it is. I think it has finally kicked-in.

Or maybe this story is something about the shiny new white-hat they bestowed upon me today, more out of pity than anything else.

Bondage, Dominance, S & M

Every great conqueror irreversibly changes the course of human evolution and leaves his undying fingerprints on the destinies of every generation yet to inhabit the planet. Alexander the Great, Ghengis Khan, Timur, Chandragupta Maurya, Hernan Cortez: this list is endless. Not only did these men bring great empires to their knees and stamp their authority upon the lives of millions of people, they changed the way these people behave and the way they think.

Some of these people have been forgotten but their influence lives on in our lives even today - we just don't think about it. Alexander still has a city named after him, not in Greece or Macedonia, but in Islamic Egypt. Cortez is almost the sole reason why the fourth largest continent is today called 'Latin America'. Without Adolf Hitler, there would be no reason for Israel's existence and Antisemitism would hardly be looked down upon even today. Maurya is said to have been one of the first people to have dreamed of Akhand Bhaarat. So each of these people have unquestionably changed the world for better or for worse... but no one has shaped the world as we know it today more than the British Crown.

Conquering is one thing, but consolidating territories and integrating people is a different ball-game altogether and the British perfected this art. You simply have to look around you today to notice the magnitude of the impact they have made. Well, I am making this post in English - if not for them, this would never have happened!

One of the most significant events in modern history is undoubtedly the shift of power in the erstwhile New World - why most of us say 'United States of America' and not 'Estados Unidos Americanos' or 'États-Unis d'Amérique'. Over time, this has ultimately come to mean that English is the language of the world - not Spanish, Mandarin or French. And language supremacy is one of the most primary measures used in achieving full and complete control.

Once the language of the land is established, you can easily say to a non-speaker, "C'mon, don't tell me you don't know English! You need to learn. And you need to learn it fast." On the other hand, he cannot tell you to learn Afrikaans, because you'll simply laugh condescendingly and say, "Fat chance I'm learning that!" He won't understand what 'fat chance' means... and that means more power to you.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting with a few friends in a canteen in Roorkee, discussing something - in cannot recall what - in Hindi. A fresher I'd met sometime earlier came up to me and asked me something in Tamil. Now when someone asks you a question in your mother-tongue, you answer in the same language. However, halfway into my answer, I found that I was speaking Hindi - a language which came naturally to neither him nor me. For a long while, it bothered me and to say that I was ashamed of that incident would be understating matters.

But then, a few days ago, in Abu Dhabi, I was talking to a friend in Hindi once again, when a few more people (mostly non-Indians) joined us at the table. This time, I was halfway into a sentence when I changed everything to English. Finally, my behavior two years ago made perfect sense! You cannot sustain a conversation in a language a majority of the people do not speak. The language of the land has long been established and there is nothing you can do about it.

And language is just the beginning. When I look around Dubai, I instinctively know that it is an extension of America, or maybe Europe. There is nothing Arab here: American bars made for American tourists who can pay American monetary equivalents. And you don't have to go to America to know this. Well, it's a brilliant business model - there is no questioning that! And the Emiratis make loads of money at the end of the day, but they remain incapable of selling their own culture.

On the other hand, you go to America to live like an American. Where you are from doesn't matter - you will become part of the culture there... People will argue that it's the most culturally accepting country in the world - a world full of immigrants; but really, no matter where you are from, you will end up accepting the local way of life. That's the most beautiful part of cultural domination - you set the rules. In Dubai and in so many other places, the tourists set the rules and the place adapts!

Cultural domination extends to most other aspects of life as well - the food we eat, the TV shows we watch, the books we read, the music we listen to, the clothes we wear... this is another infinite list. But what's more brilliant? - each of these aspects actually reinforces the dominating culture. So, while it might be seen as a criminal error when I say I don't know the difference between a Steakhouse burger and a Quarter-pounder, it's only expected that people of the international community don't know the difference between paneer and tofu.

Well, there's nothing much we people can do but to accept these changes, try to learn everything there is to be learnt and constantly try to excel at everything we do... and then one day, we'll be good enough. And then we will set the rules.

Pissing On The Motherland

Surely, no one has missed the fact that I have been going around India's Weirdest Places with the enthusiasm of  the quintessential nomad. And I am sure that I've told you innumerable times already about how beautiful it is to speak to the wind and dance with the sunset. Well, I keep putting stuff like that on Facebook and somehow end up getting more likes than some people announcing the arrival of their first-born! (It's time to revise the algorithm, Mark.) Anyway, I digress. While I hurl all the routine stories into cyberspace via social networks, I reserve the more important ones for a more sacred, rather respected area, viz. this blog. (Bah, who am I kidding... I'm going to post this link on Facebook anyway!)

It so happens that all interesting stories involve other human beings, and this story is no different. This tale is about the Indian Idol (II) and his three sidekicks; the Prophetic Arab (PA), the Intelligent NRI (IN) and I. Alone, each one of us wasn't somebody you would take notice of... But together? Together, it was like the Justice League.

The story begins at Samalkota Railway Station, Andhra Pradesh - sometime early in the morning. It was no different from any other Indian train station: a poor woman was sweeping the dirt off the platform, the old rag-picker had collapsed in the sun after collecting two bagfuls of empty water bottles and plastic bags, and a bunch of gutka-chewing fellows were busy ogling at the backside of the young lady who had just walked into the station.

Upon entering, PA asked, "Hey, do you guys mind waiting a little bit... I'll just light this cigarette?"

II (scandalized): "Whoa whoa... We have rules in India, man. No smoking in public areas - it's injurious to health. We are health conscious, unlike many other countries."

IN (in agreement): "Yes, yes... Even in Singapore, it's like this."

The arab shrugs and says, "Alright then, let's go catch the train!" And so we went.

While three of us took the long, arduous path up and down the overhead bridge to reach platform number three, Indian Idol simply jumped onto the tracks and strolled across in style. As we reached him, a little out of breath, he flashed us a wise smile.

II: "You fools... You guys climbed all the way up. I just walked across. See? Being Indian is about being smart."

PA: "Isn't that breaking the rules as well - just like the 'No Smoking' rule you talked about so proudly?"

II (in defiance): "You tell me where it's written... Where does it say I cannot cross the tracks?"

PA looks around. Alas, there is no board. The Idol smiles, very content with the happenings so far.

Then the NRI says - "In Singapore... And in most western countries, we have escalators! This is horrible. What are we? Animals?"

Hungry as we were, I bought a few samosas and chilly bajjis from the nearby IRCTC counter. All four of us were soon munching in a hurry, trying to finish off the food before the train arrived. Upon finishing, the Indian Idol promptly rolled the paper plates together in a ball and dropped them on the floor. The arab was pretty scandalized by the behaviour and bent to pick it up...

II: "Hey, what are you doing?"

PA: "There's a dust-bin right there man... I'll put the plates there! We really shouldn't litter the platform."

II (laughing) : "That's not our job, man! That's hers." He points at the shabbily dressed woman sweeping the floor.

PA: "Come on, man... She's tired and she's doing so much work already. We can do this much, right?"

II: "You foreigners will never understand, man. If you clean up behind yourself, then what work will she have?! She will be unemployed!"

PA: "Are you crazy?! If everyone cleans up behind themselves, then she wouldn't be a cleaner... She'd be doing something more worthwhile - contributing something else to society."

II: "These people are illiterate. They don't know anything. What work will they do? They can do cleaning work only. Let them do their job."

IN (cutting in to the conversation): "In Singapore, they have fines for littering in public. You can't even spit in public... They can put you in prison for that! I don't know why they don't have such measures in India. Stupid government!"

PA: "You are saying that you will continue this behaviour until the day they threaten you with fines?"

II: "In India, there are so many people... Without Government rules, how can anything change? Even if I change, what is the point? One billion more people will do the same thing... You won't understand, man."

By now, we realize that the train is late. The Intelligent NRI is outraged! This would never have happened in Singapore.

IN (looking at his watch): "Disgusting. Disgusting."

I (trying to calm him down): "Chill man... It'll be here in a while."

IN: "This isn't the way they should treat us. Trains are late, stations are dirty... there are no toilets. Tell me, where's the toilet here?"

I: "Must be on platform one... Or maybe, there's another one at the other end of this one!"

IN: "This is horrible. Why can't they space them out properly? This never happens in the west."

I: "If you want to go the toilet, go ahead man. I'm sure the train will take a little while longer."

Indian Idol (interrupts): "No, no... Don 't do that. You can piss right here."

PA (mortified at the suggestion): "Here?!"

II (laughing) : "Yeah, man. On the tracks... We're men. We don't need to go into hiding to pee! Look at that man over there!"

Yes, there was a man over there who was emptying his bladder into the air in front of him.

PA: "You guys object to me smoking in public and then piss in the open? I'm never going to understand this."

II: "It's simple man... If you smoke, it harms people around you. It's scientifically proven. But my piss hurt nobody!" Everyone laughs.

"Okay then, are you going to join me or not?" says the Idol. "Come on, man... There's nothing to be afraid of. You should never hold it in! It's not good for health."

IN: "You are right... Thank god this isn't Singapore. I'd be punished for such behaviour, there."

And so they pissed with a true sense of freedom.

Airport Syndrome

'BOSE', embossed in its singularly brilliant boldface, sends a thrill down your spine as you run your fingers over it. Now, it nestles comfortably over your ear, shutting out the world around you in a way only the magic called noise-cancellation can. You then nonchalantly pull out your iPhone 4S and turn blue-tooth on, even as you admire how snugly it fits your hand. You know everybody in the lounge is looking at you even as you pull your American Tourister carry-on closer. Then, tucking your cheeks into the turned-up collars of your dazzling jacket and looking over the upper-rim of your aviators, you walk confidently towards the 'Self check-in kiosk' where the confused young man stands.

Stepping across him deftly, you manage to do in a minute what he hasn't been able to in ten; you are secretly delighted. Of course, if it was a lovely lady who was equally baffled, you'd have checked-her in and guided her through Security Clearance as well, but too bad for him! He isn't a chick, is he? And you've impressed him enough.

The only time you have a conversation with fellow passengers, you make sure you convey to them your preference for the Emergency Exit recliner seat or why you find the other airlines better. After all, it's all about being more aware and savvy than everyone around you. In fact, airport facilities are no longer just for the convenience of passengers during transit; they are so often the reasons why people fly! It's important for people at airports to show fellow passengers how much they have travelled or how frequently they do... Sometimes, they forget to remove a sticker which mentions DXB and AMS prominently.

The Airport Syndrome is something which repels you only momentarily before devouring you completely. The next time you must be a willing participant in the whole charade or you must be strong enough to admit to people that you don't know. People might snigger at you but really, it's okay to say you don't know where your boarding gate is. It's okay to admit that you have never been to this airport before. You don't have to be cool all the time. It's okay.

Although nomenclature might suggest otherwise, this syndrome is not nearly limited to airports! While I'm quite certain that its origins lie in aircrafts and airports, today the syndrome is commonplace in bars, discotheques, restaurants and showrooms.

At dinner today, I inquired about a particular dish to which the waiter replies - "Sauteed with olive oil, there is just a dash of marinara sauce... Finally, sir, it is garnered with mouthwatering parmesan."

"Mmm, sounds good," said one of the occupants of my table.

Please tell me how the fuck I'm supposed to know how that'd taste.

The Girl In Black

The girl in black was very pretty. Her long curly hair tumbled off her shoulders and fell down the back side of her chair, but that's all I could see from where I was. All the same, it was enough reason for me to take the long route to the coffee machine, passing by her chair, a few minutes later. Yes, she is pretty. Especially when she laughs.

You know nothing special is going to happen by simply walking past somebody's seat, but it's something most of us have done. And as stupid as it sounds, the walk usually ends with a contented smile. Worryingly enough, it's not something that happens to me too often. I know quite a few lads who can end every single walk with that smile and sometimes I envy them.

I've often wondered what it is which brings those smiles to our faces: is cuteness a function of how people look or is it more about the little things that they do... What about the other aspects - how can someone I find irresistibly attractive be somebody else's Jane Doe? How do we each arrive upon an entirely different set of parameters? It's a completely different story that the solution to your complex set of equations is probably not your answer but you're always looking for that solution, aren't you?

You won't settle for anything lesser than that. You will not consider it. She has to be pretty and she ought to have done a lot of things you consider cool. She needs to make you laugh, but you want her to cry every so often. It's no fun otherwise. You want her to be all ladylike and still be completely awesome when you're together in a bar with your friends. She almost doesn't exist. It's probably why I don't want to get close to people I consider nice; I'm afraid the glass will shatter.

The problem is only exacerbated when you've lived like a nomad for your entire life! When you really don't belong to any one place, what you need is the empathy of a fellow Bedouin. You start finding some things your old pals say rather inane... And some other things, you simply don't understand! You've not become any cooler, or smarter for that matter. You're just different. You're a bit like everyone and yet no one is like you.

Tomorrow, I'll walk past her seat again. And then, I'll say something to her. Maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon. It scares the hell out of me.

Maybe I should stop drinking so much coffee.

I'm No Jogger

At 3:25 p.m. the final bell would ring and I’d be among the first lads to run out of class, while most people remained focused on packing their bags. I’d sprint all the way to the autorickshaw which would be my ride home. It paid to get there early as we always beat the rush. Getting home at 3:45 always felt good, and I’d take a shower, have a snack and immediately sit on my homework. Usually, everything would get done by five and I’d run out of the house with my new cricket bat and Cosco ball. Aashrai would follow me out usually, albeit unexcited by the games humans play.

Tennis (or rubber) ball cricket is probably the most widely played sport in India and I was its most ardent fan for the best part of four years; I fancy myself a pretty good spinner even today. Years later, when the days of cricket really did end, it was in favour of a more spirited and I suppose ‘manly’ sport: Beach football. While I can’t defend for my life, I’m pretty good when I’m supplying that final flighted ball for my strikers to finish. Then again, being quite selfish and short-tempered on field, I’d probably go for the shot myself.

The days of regular football did end too, mostly because most of the other kids I’d grown up with no longer thought playing in the sand was what ‘men’ did. Too grown up, that they’d become, they moved further away from the water, closer to the road, closer to the girls… Soon, I was no longer addicted to physical exertion and the sportsman in me died. Roorkee probably burned his remains completely, seeing me play four or five times a semester!

At the end of it all, the mind wants to rekindle the excitement of sport and the thrill of winning but the body fails to come through. Stamina is dead and Strength is left wandering in the desert. While people consider gymming a way out of their misery, it remains to me a poor excuse for your inability to play. However, it is better than nothing at all.

And hence I championed gymming for all of six months, until they decided to throw me into the middle of nowhere. Well, Schlumberger does provide five-star facilities considering the location we are in, but even they are unable to provide us a Gym, it seems. And hence, I decided I will run anyway.

And thus, when fellow Field Engineer and Delhi’s track-champion geared up for his evening jog, I made it clear that I’d be tagging along. “I run in the open desert,” he told me. “Near the road, it’s mainly rocky… Little bits of sand.”

The desert is a funny place. You can see far away objects but you’ll never figure out how far they really hour. They could be a kilometer away or they could be ten, you’ll never know. So, when he pointed at an oil-storage location, “Hah, how far will that be,” I thought. And I ran.

I kept running until I was out of breath and then I ran some more. We reached the oil-station an eternity later when track-champion says, “Hey, we’ve been running six-minutes. Why don’t you wait here? I’ll finish my run…” I looked back an saw the caravan I had started out from at a distance. As I told you, you can’t figure out distance in the desert: it could be a kilometer away or it could be five. Let’s say two. I was damn proud of myself.

It was while running back to the camp that I took note of the most wonderful thing. You never need music while running in infinite space. You’re never fiddling with your iPod searching for ‘Brothers In Arms’ while trying to maintain your pace. You don’t have to change the song to fit your mood. All you have is the wind. And it’s always singing the most perfect notes.

Izzai ek, Habibi?

"Sabbah Al Khair", "Salaam Aleikum" and all that stuff. Ever since I've come to Al-Masr, most of my vocabulary has been rendered pointless - the English vocabulary at least. Some basic Arabic verbs, pointing and grunting help you fare better than elaborate expressions in English. In fact, in the very beginning, I could converse as well with a camel as I could with an average Arab here. And hence, in a desperate attempt to obviate (or at least delay) the onset of the "Me Anirudh; you who?" stage, I write this post.

The past two weeks have been a learning experience to say the least. From picking up basic phrases in Arabic and learning concepts which govern occurrences sixteen-thousand feet down-hole to mastering the art of picking up pipes which are heavier than most dumb-bells I lifted in the Roorkee Gym, there has been a fair amount of inflow into the grey-cell area. It has been a great knowledge sharing experience for the people around me too! For example, the other day I had to explain to a fellow that Hind was not near Mexique but near Pakistan. He found the information hard to digest but he managed a smile at the end of it all. And then, there have been numerous occasions where I've had to inform fellow members of the human race that Islam and Christianity aren't the only two religions available to mankind. Another stunning fact, no?

As ignorant as they may seem, Egyptians are really friendly people. They make an effort to talk to you slowly and explain things again and again until finally you gather the essence of what they're saying. They're open and warm too. In fact, Egyptians impose their opinions upon strangers all the time. It's not something they consider rude. And they can barge into your room and then ask you  if it's okay to come in. You can do the same to them, of course. They're a welcome change actually after all the stuck-up foreigners we get to see.

And then, there's the food! Salads and salads and a few salads more... There's olive oil, rice, bread and meat. These guys eat everything - from camels to pigeons. My 'bland' diet alarms them as much as a Vampire's would. I never thought I'd say this about salads, but they're quite delightful.

It's all a mix of the fun of discovery and the discomfort of change - something every travel is about, I suppose; the same bittersweet feeling that passes through you when the sun is about to set over a lonely oil rig in the desert. You know it's going a brilliant sight. But then again, it's going to get so cold!

Arabian Knight - Part Two

(Read http://konfessionsofageenius.blogspot.com/2011/09/arabian-knight-part-one.html first)

Part Three: Great Gig In The Sky

Scheduled to land in Mumbai at 2030hrs, my plane reached ten minutes early as if by magic! Clearly there's a greater force dictating all this, I thought to myself, as I pulled my rucksack out of the overhead cabin. Sadly, in India, no one respects another person's urgency - everybody is in a hurry, you see - so I had to wait in line to deboard the plane. Running the length of the Mumbai Domestic Terminal, I reached the spot for International Transfers. Another baggage check and frisking later, I was on the bus to the international terminal. It was 8:45. The driver told me that he could reach the airport in twenty minutes if he drove fast. I reminded myself that the flight would take-off at 9:15. If I ran, I could perhaps make it.

At 9:00, we were at the international terminal and Jet Airways had the decency to send someone to pick me up from the bus. The lady in blue began helping me fill out my Emmigration Form, when her phone rang. She nodded twice and then looked at me in the eyes. "I'm sorry sir," she said. "You won't be able to make it."

There was a thunderous silence, which was only broken by the ringing of my cell-phone. Ismail was on the line. I didn't pick up. "We'll put you on tomorrow's flight," she said. I nodded meekly.

SLB HR has a weird way of hitting you when you're on the ground already. So, I should have expected their call next. "If you're not in Abu Dhabi by tomorrow morning, we might have to cancel your training," said the sing-song voice on the other side. Brilliant.

I begged and pleaded with Jet Airways once more until they finally gave in. "We got you a seat on a flight to Muscat, sir. Then you can take Oman Air to Abu Dhabi. The flight is in one hour; so hurry up with emmigrations..." Suits me, alright!

Part Four: Check Mate

The emmigration queue, like all queues in Mumbai, is really long. But it moves really fast, like everything else in Mumbai. So, I prayed to God that everything would go well when my chance came. As luck would have it, I was sent to Counter Six, manned by a rather strict, bald, old-looking man. When I gave him my passport, I noticed that he looked bit like ACP Pradhyuman.

Everything had been moving smoothly until now - until the man said the words, "Kya bakwas hai yeh? Visa dikhao..." I showed him a copy of my visa. Scrutinizing it for a while, he said, "Main tere ko nahin jaane dega," and ordered me to follow him to an inner room (which resembled Hollywood's representation of a KGB interrogation room) where we met a rather stout gentleman.

"Yeh dekhiye sa'ab," he told his boss. "Inka documents sahi nahin hai... Mujhe nahin lagta inko allow karna chahiye." The boss looked at the documents and then looked at me.

"Sir," I told him, "The Emmigration Check is to protect unskill..."
"Are you teaching me my job??" he demanded. "What is your visa validity?"
"Well, my company got it for me. It's a short-term visa... I'm only going for training, you see."
"I don't see," he said. "It must be printed here on the visa, but it's not here." He was right. There was nothing about validity on the visa copy. Great.

So, I telephoned SLB again. "What's my visa's validity?" I barked.
"I don't remember exactly," came the prompt response. "But it's short."
"How short?" I asked.
"Well, the validity is printed on the back-side of your visa... but we didn't scan that side of the document."
You're a bloody genius, aren't you? I hung up. There was still one way out - my degree!

I waved the Provisional degree on his face and said, "Sir, this is a BTech from IIT... Surely, this'll help us resolve matters."
"Degree kahan hai?"
"Yahi to hai..." I said.
"Yeh Provisional hai... I need original degree. Layega kya?" said the smart man.
"That's not possible... Please tell me what I must do... I need to go," I pleaded with the unreasonable fool.
"Visa validity chahiye. Ask the airline guys - they'll have it," he said, after some consideration. 30 minutes to take-off!

I went to Jet once more, this time to ask for my visa's validity. They said that they'd need a few hours to search their database using some highly advanced queries. Murphy, you freaking genius...

But even Murphy get's it worng sometimes. Another official came up to me and said, "I'll tell you what... Try going to another counter. Try your luck again... It might work." So, he made me enter another section of the line.

Fifteen minutes left and the final boarding call was announced. I was summoned to counter 31 this time. On the other side sat a dark, young-ish woman who looked far more affable than the idiot at Counter Six. She took my passport, turned the page and winced. "Visa?" she asked. I produced mine.

"Validity?"
"Twenty days," I said. "Here's my return ticket!" I showed it to her, trying to look as pleasant as possible.
"I need proof, no?" she said, almost staring through me.
"Ma'am, my flight has almost left! Besides, I'm going to UAE to study, not for work!" I lied.

Thoroughly confused, she began saying something when my name was announced on the PA once more.

"Ma'am, that call is for me... It's all in your hands now. If you stop me, you'll damage my life forever," I said to her slowly. She looked at me once again and then reluctantly, she banged the stamp on my passport.

Muscat, here I come!

Part Five: Private Plane

I don't have fond memories of Seeb International, Muscat, as I associate it mostly with leaving the beautiful country in 1999. All that has been changed now.

At 0040 Oman Time, the friendly Omani at the boarding gate called me, not by announcement but by gesturing with his hands. Then he told me, "My friend, I have some news for you... You are the only passenger on the plane."
"What?"
"Only passenger... You understand? One only! Warahada..."

I don't know if I was flabbergasted, elated or anxious, but the next one hour was one of those special hours in one's life. As I entered the flight, I was greeted by both the air-hostesses, an Arab and a Filipino, who said, "Welcome to Oman Air. Choose your seat... You can take any one!" And they giggled.

I got myself a wonderful window seat in front of the wings. With a scheduled departure at 0120, the main flight attendant, a middle-aged Arab, walked up to me at 0105 and said, "If you are ready, we can take-off... Air-space clear, you see?"
Here he was asking me if I was ready for take-off! "Oh, alright! As you wish!"
"But first, we shall instruct you," he said, and the air-hostess was by my beside once more giving me personal instructions. The flight attendant even showed me where exactly the life-jacket was under the seat. (I've never been able to find it until today) "In case of emergency, we have two exits in front, two at the back and four over the wings... Choose your exit as you please, sir!"

Soon, we were in the air, and Capt. Wilson made his announcement. "Hi Mr. Anirudh, this is your captain... Hope that you are enjoying your VVIP flight. I don't have the privilege of flying too many passengers alone like this; thank you for flying with Oman Air. In case you need anything, please feel free to contact Ahmed, your flight attendant or any of the air-hostesses. Hope you have a pleasant flight!"

A few delicious Arab bites later, my flight came to a halt at Abu Dhabi International. As I left the plane, I used one of the words I read in on the in-flight magazine. "Shukran!" I said, raising my palm to my forehead.

"Aafwen," they said together.

Arabian Knight - Part One

As an escape from the usual codswallop I usually have you read on this blog, I bring to you this story from the land of Djinns and Flying Carpets. Below is a true account of what happened on September 23rd, 2011.

Part One: Fine Print

Schlumberger's 'Field Engineer' job profile is one of the most exciting jobs available to any person who calls planet Earth home, so it isn't surprising when you get your visa around 30 hours before D-Day H-Hour. An oil-man is expected to have nerves of steel. So, even when the ticket arrived just a few hours prior to take-off, I hardly shuddered (much unlike mom, who was completely in a soup). But as I've come to understand, even the seasoned oil-man can be rattled every now and again.

What happens when you don't read fine print, you may ask... My answer: It all depends upon what the fine-print says. If it says "Ensure that your passport has an ECNR (Emmigration Check Not Required) stamp before going to the airport", it just might be worth paying attention to.

With packing half-done at 1230hrs and my flight scheduled for 1745hrs, I was cutting it fine already. That was when I re-read the informative email. I cooly reached out for my passport and checked it with an air of nonchalant ease; all was fine and pretty soon, I'd be over the sea and far away, I thought. As I turned to the second page, I was met by the following words:

"ECR (EMMIGRATION CHECK REQUIRED)"

As you see, the Emmigration Check is in place to protect the unskilled Indian labourer from exploitation in other countries, especially in the Gulf. It shouldn't be much of a problem, I thought to myself. Since I had procured myself a provisional degree from Indian Institute of Technology Roorkee, I couldn't exactly be classified as unskilled. And besides, I wasn't going to Abu Dhabi to work; it was just training.

All the same, when people around you hyperventilate, it sort of rubs off on you. Soon, there's collective hyperventilation, mass hysteria and pandemonium in general. Dad's contacts at the airport told me on phone that I had a fair 50% chance of clearing the EC. Dad getting worried, ordered me to zip my bags as they were and head staight for the airport. It was 1:15 pm.

Part Two: Telephone

Reaching the Chennai Domestic Terminal insanely early (at 1345 for a 1745 flight), I was met by a few officials who studied my passport carefully. They told me that there shouldn't be any trouble in Emmigration. In fact, if the flight was from Madras, they said that they'd be happy to ensure that I get through EC; however, since it was from Mumbai, they said that I'd have to talk sense into the officials there. That shouldn't be too hard, right?

My flight was scheduled to land at 1945hrs at Mumbai and the international flight to Abu Dhabi would take-off at 2115hrs. So, having checked my luggage straight through to Abu Dhabi, I relaxed over a coffee in the Chennai Airport Lounge. One never knows how time moves when you're in semi-sleep mode - so, after a while, I checked my watch again: 5:30. Why am I still not on the plane?

"I'm sorry sir, your flight has been delayed. It will depart at 6:30 pm," said the suave Jet Airways official who I wanted to punch. Controlling the impulse, I asked innocently, "Does that mean that the landing will also be late?"

"Oh yes," he said, happily.

"How do you plan to get me on your flight to Abu Dhabi then?"

"What flight?" he asked.

"Jet Airways to Abu Dhabi. It's at 9:15."

"Oh, that! I'm sorry sir... You won't be able to make it. Why don't you take tomorrow's flight?" he asked me, as if he was offering me tea in place of coffee.

"No, no... I need you to get me there, somehow. Anyway, I've checked my luggage through to Abu Dhabi," I pressed.

"That's not an issue. I can get your luggage off the plane," he retorted, gleefully.

"I'd like my luggage to stay where it is. Get me there somehow... Make your other flight wait a few minutes for me if needed! Isn't that why I've booked myself into Jet Airways both times??"

He told me that it'd hardly be possible.

Seeing that an impasse was reached, I telephoned the ever-helpful HR hotline at Schlumberger (SLB) which no one ever picks up. As usual, no one picked up. After a few minutes of frantic searching, however, I managed to reach somebody in SLB who transferred me to the bilingual travel agent who had booked my tickets, Mr. Ismail.

Mr. Ismail was furious with Jet Airways for their callous attitude. "How can they do this?" he asked me, righteously. "I don't know," I said. Meanwhile, the Jet Airways official told me that he'd fly me to Bombay if I was willing to undertake the risk of missing the connection and being stranded in Bombay. He assured me that Jet Airways at Mumbai wouldn't be helpful (unlike him) and they couldn't care less about one more passenger being stranded in their mammoth airport. He asked me "Are you ready to take the chance?"

Next, I talked to Ismail again.

"How can they do that!" he yelled. "Main bhi dekhta hun aapko kaise chordke jaate hain yeh log! It is their duty to take you," he said. When I relayed the message to the Airlines, "Who is your stupid agent?" they asked. "Who books two flights so close together? He seems a little soft in his head," they said.

There was only one way to resolve this! I dialled Ismail's number and handed the phone to the Jet official and told him, "Talk." He picked up the phone and began talking. He paced up and down as they abused each other as politely as they could and I noticed that they were close to discussing the issue at hand. Five minutes later, at 6:17 pm, he ended the call, threw me the phone and ran towards the tarmac through the boarding-gate. "Hey, what did you guys decide?!" I yelled. There would be no response.

As a normal person would do, I called up Ismail to find out what decision they had reached. The phone was still ringing when the announcement came loud, "This is the final boarding announcement for Mr. Anirudh Arun for flight..."

Oh crap. Okay, I'll take the chance, I thought. To Mumbai...

(Read 'Arabian Knight - Part Two' for more)